


Wounded

by L122YTorch (orphan_account)



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Realization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:18:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/L122YTorch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILER ALERT **** Seeing her face might just be the last thing Red will ever see. How will Lizzie grapple with the recently discovered truth and the feelings she's developed for Red? Even after discovering his betrayal, she remained at the hospital, caring about him - and she hated herself for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

*SPOILER ALERT*

The fluorescent lights were giving her a headache. The hospital buzzed with nurses, patients, doctors and loved ones in a never ending flurry of hurried footsteps. The walls were a sickly sea foam green and the clock on the wall ticked too loudly. 

She hunched forward, elbows resting on her legs, hands clasped together. For the past few hours she picked at the dried blood on her hands, but still hadn't gotten it all off. She scrubbed her hands beneath jarringly hot water in the bathroom, but bits and pieces still remained. 

She was in shock; furious, but unable to leave. 

Now she knew the truth - Reddington had hired Tom to infiltrate her life. He was behind the single greatest failure of her entire life. An event that left her vulnerable, feeling like a failure, destroyed. Her life was a lie, lying in shambles, and yet Reddington had the gaul to face her? To befriend her? 

She was a pawn, that was it. 

But as the gunshot rang out in the street, and she turned to see Red's form falling to the ground…she couldn't just leave. Something inside of her pulled her to him, even in the midst of her bitter hatred. 

It didn't matter how tightly she closed her eyes and tried the shake the image…she could still see him, lying on the asphalt, eyes wide open as blood poured out of his mouth. 

He wanted to tell her why. He had more to say and she didn't let him say it. Now, he may never get the chance to explain. 

Did it matter?

What if he died? Would she cry? Would she hurt for the man who hurt her? 

"Agent Keen," a female voice snapped her from her intense study of the linoleum floor. 

"Yes?" 

"I was told to inform you about Mr. Reddington's condition."

"How is he?" she didn't recognize the tremor in her voice. 

"Alive," the nurse replied. "As you know, his right lung was punctured. He made it through the two hour surgery, but things are still touch and go. He lost a lot of blood."

Liz's stomach churned, and she let out a breath she wasn't aware she held. "When can I see him?" 

"Protocol in ICU is a bit restrictive. You won't be able to see him until tomorrow morning, but even then, he won't be conscious." 

"That's fine," Liz answered. "I just want to see him." 

"Visiting hours start at 8 am," the nurse clutched her clipboard and prepared to leave. Stopping as she turned to ask, "does he have any friends or family you would like us to notify?" 

"No…no," Liz shook her head, "just me." The nurse nodded, curiosity flitting across her features as she likely wondered why a federal agent seemed so visibly shaken over a shooting victim. The woman disappeared, leaving Keen alone with her thoughts.

Liz let the weight of her head fall into her hands. Tears burned behind her stubborn eyes that refused to let them fall. Why should she care this much? She was angry at him - she was angry at herself, for feeling something for him. 

What kind of agent was she? What kind of profiler? That she could be so thoroughly manipulated, so completely blindsided. Just when her life felt like it was on an even keel, he would shake it like a snow globe and all the shit that hit the fan would rain down around her. She didn't ask for this.

"Are you going to tell them?" Dembe asked, his figure appearing out of thin air to stand next to her. 

She looked up at him with red eyes, "no, I haven't told anyone at the Post Office."

"Perhaps you should," he said in a whisper.

Saying nothing, she nodded in response. Her mouth was dry, and her hands were cold and clammy. 

"What about whoever tried to kill Red?" she croaked.

"I have made it abundantly clear that Red and I do in fact possess the fulcrum. They will not make another attempt on his life or I will go public with the files." 

"Good, good." 

"Red is strong Agent Keen," he said calmly.

Liz just stared up at him in disbelief, searching for words that couldn't be expressed. 

"I know that you are angry with him, but you are also still here. And you do not know the whole story."

She bit her bottom lip - hard- and shook her head. "I don't want to talk about this," she said curtly, so he nodded and walked away.

She looked over at the seat next to her. A top it's worn aqua fabric sat her iPhone. She had been at the hospital for four hours, it was nearing 11pm and she hadn't even considered calling the Post Office until now. 

Liz reached out and picked up the device, dialing agent Ressler. 

"Hey," she said, trying to keep her voice from showing any emotion. "I'm at the hospital…no, I'm fine………….it's Red…………yeah………..…he was shot……..…things are touch and go, the bullet punctured his lung, but hopefully he'll be alright…………..yeah, I was there when it happened………..he's not in danger anymore…………..look, can we talk about this tomorrow? Just tell Cooper for me will you? ………….… Okay, I'm staying here at Mercy tonight ………….. Okay, bye," she hung up. 

Wrapping her arms around herself she sunk into the uncomfortable plastic chair for the long haul. Liz knew that even if she left and went home, she wouldn't be able to sleep, so she might as well just stay here.


	2. Chapter 2

The night went by painfully slow. It felt as if the sun would never rise, as if 8 am was this distant, unreachable point in time. 

The ICU waiting room was not exactly a Four Seasons hotel room. It was hard to ignore the sullen faces of friends and family members as they too waited to find out if their lives would change forever. Children, adults, elderly all sat in uncomfortable plastic chairs, staring distantly in different directions. 

By now she had every facet of the room memorized, every face around her committed to memory. Three fish tanks created a constant lulling thrum. Since it was so late, the volume on the TV was turned down to a hushed whisper. It hung in the corner, with only a few watchers. Nurses and doctors popped in periodically. If it was good news, they told the family right there - in the waiting room. If it was bad news, they asked the family to step out into the hall.

Heartbreak and anticipation hung heavy in the air. 

Liz tried to get comfortable, resting on one arm until it fell asleep, then switching to the other. In the silence of limbo she could focus on every breath she took, on every contraction of her heart. Surrounded by the struggle for life and death, Liz became keenly aware of her own humanity. 

Thoughts of Red floated through her tired mind. Snippets in time of him saying something wise or infuriating. The way his eyes would reveal themselves beneath the tip of a black fedora. His cologne was unique, his presence had it's own signature, his gravel filled voice hung in her ears. 

She had every right to hate him. But hating him was hard when she was sitting there contemplating what she might say at his funeral. Hell, he probably wouldn't even have a funeral. Could you even imagine? Calling all crime lords…gather for the funeral of the infamous Raymond Reddington…in lieu of flowers, please consider donating to crime stoppers. 

She huffed a dry laugh to herself, but it quickly dissipated as she truly considered what she would say to his cold, blue face. 

What would she say if she stood over his open coffin?

"Here lies Raymond Reddington…an enigma wrapped in a maze, lost in a puzzle. Who was he? Does anyone truly know? I certainly don't. All I know for sure…is that he was brilliant, infuriating, guarded, and considerate only when it came to me - Elizabeth Keen. And why? Did he care for me out of guilt? Did he truly care at all? I suppose that I"ll never know. This man came whirling into my life, spawning chaos, devastation and success. It's unfortunate that he has left us in such an untimely manner…because I truly fear that he is the only one who really knows me. And now, I'll never have the truth, I'll never know myself, and I'll never know him."

Yeah…that sounded like a decent eulogy. 

She shifted once more in her chair. It whined in protest as she crumpled up her body to fit in the suffocating space. 

Liz was close enough to the door that she could hear the broken cries of people who just received bad news. She wondered if she was next. She wondered how she would react if they told her that things had gone from "touch and go," to just "go." 

Death was something that she had become very familiar with in her life - from a young age. And as mad as she was at him, she couldn't bear the thought of losing him. The idea of burying Red spawned a sense of loneliness that quickly spiraled into despair. Hurt bloomed inside of her already fragile heart and she attempted to push it into submission so that she might find rest. 

'Just listen to the sound of the fish tanks as it mingles with the ticking of the clock…just let sleep swallow you Liz' she told herself. 

Letting heavy lids fall, she sat stone still, anticipating sleep, waiting for morning. 

His face followed her as she stepped into the warm water of sleep. Deeper she went, and under the lapping waves of dream after dream, he remained with her.


	3. Chapter 3

At some point, Liz's arm fell asleep, slipping from the chair, her head lulled forward and she awoke.

Through bleary eyes she looked down the hall at the digital clock that hung from the ceiling. It was either very late or incredibly early. 

She stood, shaking her arm to get the blood flowing again. Quickly, she walked towards Red's room. But the sight that greeted her didn't make any sense in her tired mind.

"Where the hell is he?" she said, storming inside.

A nurse with a confused look on her face was switching out an IV for a man, who was clearly not Red. Again she pressed, "where is Raymond Reddington?" 

"I don't know who you are referring to," the nurse answered, alarm growing in her voice. The hospital worker considered calling security, but Liz had already backed out of the room. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and raced down the hall.

Of course he was gone, what had she expected?

A quick call to Dembe confirmed that Red was at a more secure location. So nice of him to let her know…

Somewhat haphazardly she drove to the address that he had given her. Once there, she slammed the vehicle into park, yanked the key from the ignition, and hurried into the nondescript building. There was security posted everywhere and Dembe greeted her at the door. 

"He was never even at the hospital was he?" she asked, furious.

"No, of course not," Dembe answered. "He was taken here immediately after being shot, we have world class doctors and nurses looking after him."

"And you couldn't tell me this because…?"

"It doesn't matter now," Dembe answered cryptically. 

"I think Red has rubbed off on you," she said under her breath.

Together they strode into the warehouse-like building, twisting down a few halls before coming to a makeshift sterile space.

"How is he?" she asked as Dembe pulled back aside plastic tarp curtain.

"See for yourself," Red's scruffy voice responded in a half whisper.

As soon as she saw him, relief flooded her system and it surely must have shown on her face. 

"Red," she said, her voice barely stable.

He was lying on a bed in the middle of the not-quite hospital room. A blanket was pulled up to his waist and a hoodie was half unzipped, exposing his bandaged chest. 

His features were twisted with concern - a look she had rarely seen on him before. But as he took in the sight of her, his face softened. 

"Lizzie…" he hummed. "I have to say that I'm surprised to see you."

She came closer to him, absentmindedly rubbing her scar out of nervousness. With a quick glance behind her she confirmed that Dembe had left them alone.

"If you're planning on killing me, now would be an opportune time," he jested. But she certainly didn't find it funny.

She searched for words, but found none, so he filled the silence once more. "You look just as bad as I feel."

Her eyes snapped up to meet his gaze. Dark bags clung to the underside of her eyes, her hair was tousled, and she appeared to be visibly distraut.

"I'm glad you're okay," she offered.

"Are you?" he queried.

"I am," she said, pulling up a chair to his bedside. 

"And it infuriates me," she gulped, suppressing a furry of emotions that included hatred, guilt, sadness and frustration. "I should be furious at you. But when I heard that gunshot…when I turned and watched you fall…" she faltered, unshed tears stinging her eyes.

"All I want from you is the truth, and that seems to be the only thing you won't give me."

"Is that so?" he said, shifting slightly, his hoodie unzipping further. She tried not to look, but couldn't resist the urge. Her eyes wandered over the muscles peaking out beneath the fabric and she had an intense desire to touch him. The thought sparked desire that settled low in her abdomen.

He studied her face intently, watched carefully as she extended her right hand slowly, bringing it to rest on an unaffected area of his chest. 

"I tried to explain Lizzie, but you wouldn't let me," he struggled to keep his composure.

"You know what I spent last night thinking about?" she changed the subject, playing nervously with the zipper on his jacket. She felt so incredibly vulnerable, even though he was the one compromised.

He didn't respond so she answered anyway. "I was thinking about what I'd say at your funeral," she tugged the zipper down slowly. "Not that you would have one." In the quiet space, the slow clicks of metal purring as they slid against one another sounded so loud.

"And as mad as I was at you…I just couldn't…" she stopped talking, more absorbed in the fingers she was slipping into his jacket, resting on the flesh where his diaphragm was. 

She ran the pads of her fingers over the fine hairs on his chest, focusing on the heartbeat beneath her hand, grateful for every rise and fall of his chest.

Agent Keene became a bit too wrapped up in her emotions. She didn't notice that his heart monitor was steadily beating faster, and only when the tears fell from her cheek did she realize she was crying. 

He wanted to turn on his side, he wanted to get down on his knees and beg for her forgiveness, he wanted to touch her, hold her and never let go. The moment he thought he had lost her was scarier than being shot.

Suddenly, her hand ceased it's ministrations and she looked up at him. Every single emotion she felt travelled over her features. He could feel the weight of her concern, her anger at the fact that she cared for him, her thinly veiled desire, the fleeting sense of relief at his wellbeing, her anger at herself and at him...

She could no longer look him in the eye, not as tears continued down her face. The immediate desire sprung up within her to flee. She had to go. She was running on too little sleep and too much emotion. 

She stood, but he grabbed her wrist. Not a crushing grip, but it certainly communicated need. 

Rather than look into his eyes, she closed hers, leaned down, bringing her face to his. She rested her tear stained cheek against his face and tendrils of her hair fell over his features. It was a great opportunity to breathe him in, to make sure that he was still actually here. 

The temptation to kiss him was unbearable. His lips were pale and cracked, longing for attention, for contact. So she acquiesced their silent plea and brought her mouth to his. 

When their lips first met he was stone still, his whole body tensing as his mind faltered. But after a moment, as she moved to pull away, he brought his left hand up to her face, keeping her there, and opened his mouth so that he could kiss her like she deserved.

His skilled tongue swept into her mouth, savoring every second that he was allowed to taste her. It was an assault of teeth and tongue that exploded with passion, lust, longing, hurt, and comfort. It broke her apart and put her together at the same time.

Finally they separated, his heart monitor now beeping in dismay. She stood, trying to steady herself and regain her composure as a doctor came in. 

He was in shock and so was she. Liz began to back up, even as Red said her name in a plea for her to stay. As the doctor neared and began tending to him, she slipped from the room, the weight of his gaze following her all the way out the door. 

Once engulfed by the comfort and silence of her car, she let out the gasping sobs that were contained for too long. She longed for simplicity. She mourned the loss of normality. She finally experienced the breakdown that was two years in the making.


End file.
